I don't care about my job. It's some do-nothing document review gig in the dim lit throwaway room of the company building, locked away from any interaction and engagement besides the mountains of paperwork. I'm down there to do the same job as all the other nobodies.
It was a Friday during a particularly frosty December night, and I had just gotten settled... As settled as you could be in a shitty studio apartment, I suppose. I peered over the stove, eyeing the kettle intently, waiting for it to steam...
RING!!! RING!!!
My ringtone shot through the city's ambiance, tearing it open like a bullet through paper. Reluctantly, I whipped the crappy flip phone from my pocket, flipping it open to see who was dialing. It was work.
"Come on..." I muttered, accepting the call. "Hello?" I answered snappily. It was Marshall, our paralegal manager. "Hey," he was quick to answer in his typical throaty tone. "I'm not going to name names, but someone bailed. Manager needs you to pick up their slack."
God, damn it...
I know not to shoot the messenger and all that crap, but it would have been easier to just say, "you're an asshole" and hang up, rather than making some sorry excuse. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. He'd have my ass if I even thought about saying something like that. I'm a bad liar anyway.
"Really?" It pissed me off. It wasn't my problem, why did I need to solve it? "Yes, really. It's your job." I suppose he had a point. It was my job, but it wasn't my work. "God, damn it. Alright. I'll come by. Thanks." Why did I say that? I wasn't thankful.
I shut the phone and slid it back in my pocket, swallowing the urge to pummel whoever stiffed me with their workload. Tiredly, I slipped back into my blouse and blazer - despite knowing nobody would be there to care. I threw my trench coat over my body and tied it tightly around me. The cocoa on the burner began to steam, the high whistle keeping silence an unattainable luxury.
I had planned to have a nice cup or two while I stayed inside and indulged in my novellas, but that was swiftly flipped on its head. I drained the kettle into a thermos, carrying it with me as I turned into the living room, picking my work bag off the couch and slinging it across my shoulders. My eyes looked across the room, disappointed, wishing I was unemployed rather than have to go out again.
Whatever. I slipped on my mittens, moccasins and earmuffs before heading out the door, the container in my grasp. Snow beat down harshly from the blackened sky as I began the trek through the desolate darkness of the December dusk.
The wind thrashed the snow about, whipping vibrant flakes across an empty sky, floating downward upon the quiet streets littered with homes strung in lights. A snowflake landed on the lid of my drink, melting into nothing as quickly as it had been born.
I lifted the cup to my lips, taking a troubled sip as I approached the building looming ominously above me. The cocoa was exuberant and fiery, the warm and sweet nectar pleasantly contrasting to the climate of this less than fair Friday evening.
I tried my luck with the door, and sure enough, it was unlocked. The rusty hinges creaked as it swung open and creaked closed, wailing once more as it sluggishly inched shut. Loud and large fluorescent lights shone on me as I walked inside, flicking on and off at rapid fire, a chime to the dull and permanent hum that swallows up any quiet I could have hoped for.
The front desk was vacant, the swivel chair turned away from the door. I set my drink on the tabletop hurriedly while I unbundled, hanging my coat in the corner and kicking off my snow-coated shoes. Tossing my bag onto the floor, I rummaged around in an attempt to find the high heels I had tucked away. Nice, small black shoes that raised me up a notch.
I turned to the window, greeted by the girl living in the foggy glass. "I look good..." I whispered to myself as I slid into my shoes. I'm charmed by my chest, by my tightly buttoned top barely containing my bust. I shuffled to my destination, the thin and stalky heel making a repeated clack as I stepped.
The thermos was back in my hand, soothing warmth flowing through from the metal. It was right in front of me then, right as I looked up from my cup. Catherine's Crossing, I called it, name given when Catherine broke her nose when she fell nearly a year ago. Poor girl. Every inch of the corridor was plastered in a sickly yellow wallpaper, the odd, lingering stench of the water-stained ceiling forever tethered to the walkway. At the very end of it all, there was the door.
Stood at the very end of the hallway was that rusted metal door, the handle spotted with fingerprints and wither. Wrapping my hand around it always made me feel sad, knowing my shift officially began the moment I entered. Despite it all, I stepped inside. I'm greeted by the same wallpaper and that old wood desk that's wished me good morning for nearly 6 years, stains and smears exactly where they were 4 hours ago. Without turning on the main light I could still read the poster opposite of where I stood.
DO YOUR JOB!
How empowering. I knocked on the door twice before pulling it closed, a ritual that I can't remember creating, only fulfilling. I switched on an old-fashioned lamp near my chair. It did what it needed to, not to mention it spared me from the damned buzz of the bulb. Music would have been nice. It's always too quiet there. Normally I'd have my earbuds to keep me entertained. But it'd be a distraction from my work, I suppose. Even an interestingly shaped ball of lint would have occupied my attention.
The damp feeling of enthusiasm is lost after the first few months, the work boiling down to words and paper, and nothing more. As I mindlessly skimmed over the thousands of words plastered on pages I was meant to be revising, I hardly pay attention to the sounds beyond the door. Footsteps.
